


Gratuity

by solafiamma



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-24
Updated: 2005-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solafiamma/pseuds/solafiamma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for DWNOGA 2005. Huge thanks to i_naiad and budge for squishing this into shape.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Gratuity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [athenaps](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=athenaps).



> Written for DWNOGA 2005. Huge thanks to i_naiad and budge for squishing this into shape.

“So, anyway," Justin mumbles around a mouthful of peanuts, "Dr. Everall says insomnia can be caused by a variety of factors, like, you know, stress or anxiety, or whatever, and-"

"Yeah? Well, Dr. Evifuck can bite me twice. That is if he can yank his head out of his ass for long enough to remember that making diagnoses without actually seeing the patient is just plain unethical." Chris raises his empty glass and waggles it peremptorily toward the end of the bar where Joey's wiping down the counter and pretending to listen to some sad looking guy in a rumpled suit. The guy looks like he's about to burst into tears given the slightest provocation. If he does, Joey's going to be pissy for the rest of the evening. The criers really bother him.

"I had insomnia once," JC says, glancing up from the newspaper he's been studying ever since he arrived. "When I was working night shift at that coffee place? I didn't sleep for two weeks straight because I had to drink so many double espressos to stay awake. Kind of ironic, really."

"He _wasn't_ diagnosing _you_!" Justin says, ignoring JC. It's usually best to ignore JC when he starts reminiscing; otherwise you end up talking about the mating habits of ticks or how many slices of Kraft cheese it would take to tile the living room floor. "He' barely even knows I _exist_. It was just part of his lecture. We're studying--"

"Look, _I_ don't _have_ insomnia, dude. This isn't about _me_. The only reason I'm not sleeping is that you're up every single God damned night till ass o'frickin' clock, and when you do finally haul your butt to bed, you only stay for, like, six minutes and then you're out in the kitchen frying eggs or washing dishes or playing with the mice." Banging his glass down on the counter, Chris tips the bowl of peanuts onto the floor behind the bar and glares defiantly toward Joey, who continues to ignore him. "If you could just, I dunno, tiptoe or slide around in your sock feet instead of thundering about like a three-legged elephant. I bet they can hear you in Connecticut. Shit. They can probably hear you in Upper Botswana."

"Oh, it's not that bad." Justin rolls his eyes at JC, who rolls his eyes back and then pats Chris's arm apologetically. "Um. We don't _really_ have mice, do we, dude?" He regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth, because now he actually has to _think_ about mice, and that makes him want to go wash his hands, and maybe even do his laundry. "It's just. Well, mice are kind of disgusting. They're completely unsanitary. I totally shouldn't have to pay rent if you're not going to take care of rodent infestations."

"I can't remember the last time you actually _paid_ rent, but whatever."

"Oh, hey. Mice are cool. People _need_ mice, Justin," JC says, saving Justin from having to explain for the two billionth time why his student loan was late. Again. "They eat insects and things. Or, wait. No. That's geckos. Mice do something else good, though. I was reading about it just the other day. But they do have dirty feet, so if they get into your t-shirt drawer I guess you kinda have to draw the line." Shrugging, he turns back to his newspaper. "Hmmm. What does a backhoe operator actually do? Do you guys know? Do you think I could do it?"

Justin stares bemusedly at JC for a couple of minutes, then shakes his head and turns back to Chris. "No, but, dude, I don't have _insomnia_. I just can't sleep because, well. Because. My mind just doesn't want to shut down. I thought it was because of the student loan thing, but that doesn't actually bother me too much. Oh, shut up," he says as Chris snorts. "I think maybe I'm just out of the habit of sleeping. Maybe I'm one of those people who don't really _need_ to sleep. Dr. Everall said--""

"I'm pretty sure we established that nobody in here actually gives a rat's ass about Professor McBore-Me-Rigid's views on pretty much anything, so maybe you could just put your psych notebook in a safe place and then one day when hell freezes over and we decide we care, you can dig it up and read it to us, ‘kay?"

"God, you’re in a foul mood these days," Joey says, sliding another stein of beer toward Chris. "I might have to kick your ass out of the bar if you can’t behave yourself."

"He's just cranky because he's old and he can't get by on less than ten hours sleep a night, Joe." Justin yawns. "Man, I'm wasted. I might go home and have a nap."

"You little bastard! You go anywhere near a bed before midnight and I'll bite your nose off. Jesus F. Is _that_ why you're not sleeping? Because you're napping like a baby?"

Justin sighs, running his finger around one of the many holes burnt into the polished mahogany of the bar by drunken smokers. Chris can be such a drama queen. "God, can't I have one lousy night without--"

"It’s not just one night! This has been going on for weeks! _Weeks!_ " Chris waves his beer stein at Joey. "Man, last night this fucker woke me up at three a.m. \-- for the fifth time, let me add -- because he decided that the bathtub needed re-grouting. Which, okay, maybe it does, but possibly not to the tune of "She Came in Through the Bathroom Window," which he sang _thirty-four_ times beginning to end before I finally had to get up and smother him with my quilt. And he's been pulling the same kind of shit every night for, like, ever. He _has_ , Joe. Every single night!"

Joey looks at Justin, eyes automatically moving to Justin's half-full glass, then back to Justin's face. "So, what's going on, kid?

"Seriously, nothing. I just can't get to sleep, so I do _stuff_ instead. I don't know why you're so bent out of shape about it, Chris. I'm doing you kind of a _favour_ , here. Lots of favours, really. It's not like you'd cleaned behind the fridge for the last thousand years. Gross, man."

"Who gives a crap about behind the fridge? We could be growing mould two feet deep back there and I wouldn't care. All I want is one night that doesn't involve you acting out scenes from Alien vs. Predator _right_ outside my bedroom door or cooking bacon in the nude and screaming when you fry the jewels. How am I supposed to get any work done on ten minutes sleep, for fuck's sake?"

"Book not going so well?" Joey asks sympathetically, reaching under the counter for the bag of peanuts and replenishing the dish that Chris had emptied onto the floor.

"The book’s going fine, actually," Chris says, perking up a little. "I might even make deadline this time. Woo hoo! My publisher’ll drop dead from shock. But only if a certain fuckwad starts keeping regular hours. Otherwise, homicide will happen and I'll have to finish it in the big house."

"Well, I don't know what you expect _me_ to do about it," Justin says. "It's not like I haven't _tried_ to go to sleep, yo."

Joey gazes at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, like Justin's a booger floating in a martini he's just mixed. "You know what you need?" he finally asks.

Justin shakes his head. "I'm not sure I need anything, dude. Except some ear plugs for Chris."

"Dude, you need to get laid."

" _Joey!_ " Justin can feel himself blushing, and he hopes the bar is dark enough to hide it. "God, that's just. _Boundaries_ , dude."

"I’m serious, Justin. When was the last time your dick got any action that didn’t involve your right hand?"

"Go away."

"It’s my bar. Who’s going to fetch your drinks if I go away?"

"This _isn't_ about sex, Joey! I'm just. It just." Justin thinks about it for a minute. Oh, man. This is just. Humiliating. People can tell just by _looking_ at him that he isn't getting any? Wow. Maybe it _is_ about sex. This is seriously fucked up.

"Justin, we've known you for how many years now?" asks Joey. "Plenty. That's how many. We've plied you with liquor and sympathy through a couple of major breakups and a couple of minor ones, and we put up with you pissing and moaning through each and every one of them." Chris and JC nod vigorously and toast each other in a commiseratory sort of way. "And, dude, after every breakup, at a point when any sane person would have already picked themselves up, dusted themselves off and moved the hell on, you go through this stupid, drawn out sleepless-in-Seattle phase where the pissing and moaning become steadily more obnoxious, until you finally clue in to the fact that you're not sad any more, you're just horny as hell. You, my good friend, have reached that point. Trust me."

"Oh, man, he's right," Chris screeches gleefully. "He's absolutely right! I mean, dude, you are a total moron when you're horny! How could I have forgotten? Except that, oh, yeah, you weren't living with me then. Joey's right! We gotta get you laid, dude. Like, STAT."

"Stop yelling in my ear! Like, _ouch_. And also _ew!_ Can you guys stop talking about my sex life, please, for the love of God, _pleeease._ You're traumatizing me."

Besides, Joey's stupid. This is different, completely different.

"That's stupid, Joey. This is different, completely different. I got over Adam _months_ ago. Weeks. And for your information, I didn't even _go_ through a horny phase this time, which blows your stupid ass theory right out of the water." Justin scowls at Joey, then at Chris, then back at Joey. Waving towards his lap, he says, "I think I'd _know_ if I was horny, dude!"

Just to be difficult, his dick decides to choose this particular moment to give a hopeful twitch, and because his luck is perverse that way, Chris's gaze drops at the exact same time.

"Oh, just shut up," Justin says as Chris snickers immaturely, pointing at the unmistakable bulge in his pants, a bulge which would be far less noticeable if he hadn't been forced to go commando today after accidentally bleaching holes in all his underwear the night before. Life has obviously decided to be a total bitch to him today. "Oh, hell. This is just great. I don't have time for this shit."

Chris starts cackling again, which kind of makes Justin want to sack him. "You don't have _time_ for this? You don't have _time_ to get _laid_? Justin, that's pathetic. How long does it _take_? You just pick someone up, you do it, and you're human again. Or whatever passes for human in your case."

"It's not that simple, Chris." Justin tries not to whine, but, fuck, it's true. He doesn't have time. "I've got deadlines, dude. Mid-terms are coming up, I have a psych essay due in, like, two days, I have a math lab to finish, and my _Analytical Approaches to the Music of Modernism_ course has just turned into a total bastard. I can't afford to be out cruising the pick up bars. I mean, I'd have to, I dunno. Dress up. Remember how to make small talk. Get a haircut maybe. Buy some new cologne. Some new underwear. Oh, God. I hate that shit."

"I could set you up," Chris offers. "My agent told me her assistant just came out, and apparently he's desperate to finally do it with a guy."

"Oh. Thanks so very much, but I'm pretty sure there's someone out there who doesn't actually have to be desperate to want to sleep with me."

"Uh huh. Sure," Joey says, "but since you're too busy to even buy underwear, that's apparently someone you're not likely to meet."

" _I'll_ sleep with you if you want." Lowering his paper, JC leans toward Justin and squeezes his arm. "If you can wait a couple of hours. I have to go drop off a couple of resumes and pick up an application form, but sometime after six would probably work."

"I thought you were working at the 7-11," Joey says.

"I was. Yes. Didn't work out. They kind of, you know. Fired me. The supervisor was totally anal about being polite to the customers, and, well. Whatever. I wasn't. But it's all worked out okay because the night shifts were totally fucking with my performance art thing. It's hard to be convincing as an undead cabaret singer in broad daylight."

"Uh huh. How's that working out for you, anyway?" Joey asks. "Last time I talked to you I think you'd made, what? Two dollars and twelve cents?"

"It's not about the money, Joe. I've told you. It's art. And a political statement. You'd understand if you'd ever come and watch me. Hey, I'll be outside the McDonalds just up the block later tonight, if you can get away for a few minutes. I was hoping to go for a couple of interviews first, but no one's called me. I bet that bastard manager at the 7-11 is giving me a lousy reference. I should sue his ass. But, enough about me. Justin!" Turning back to Justin with an alarmingly predatory, teeth-baring smile that makes Justin want to run and hide in the bathroom, JC repeats his offer. "Waddya say? Wanna hook up?"

"Fuck no. I'm still scared from last time. You're one kinky bastard, Chasez."

Joey and Chris both eye JC speculatively. Winking at them, JC picks up his newspaper again. "Well, if you're going to be picky . . ."

"You know," Joey says, yanking his eyes away from JC, "I think I might have the perfect solution to your problem."

"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna sleep with you either."

"Damned straight you're not. Never sleep with the customers, that's what I always say. Well, almost never," he adds, sliding his eyes towards JC again. "But listen. So, okay, you don't have time to find someone yourself, which, given your track record, isn't necessarily such a bad thing."

"Shut up."

"Right. And you don't want to sleep with whatever riff raff Chris can scrape out of the publishing industry."

"Hey! I wasn't trying to set him up with riff raff. This guy's pretty hot, dude. I mean, he maybe doesn't have the absolute _perfect_ body," Chris looks disapprovingly at Justin's own ripped abs, "but he looks good. He's presentable. I'd do him."

Ignoring him, Joey continues. "And you don't want to sleep with your friends. Well. Me or JC, anyway. I'm assuming that if you were interested in Chris you'd have screwed him already, given that you guys live together and everything."

" _Ew_! Shut _up_!" Justin and Chris yell in unison.

"Okay, then. I know a guy. He's very good looking, really discreet and he's great in bed. And the best thing is, he'll only cost you--"

"A _hooker_? Are you out of your freaking _mind_?" Justin shrieks. "A _hooker_? A _hooker_?"

"Calm down. He's an escort. A paid escort. Who'll have sex with you. And be gone before morning. No muss, no fuss. It's win-win, dude."

"That's kinda nasty, Joe," says Chris, making an obvious effort to sound disapproving instead of titillated. "I hardly think Justin needs to _pay_ people to do him."

"Of course he doesn't _need_ to pay people to do him. Just like you don't _need_ to pay that lady to clean your oven and wash your windows once every couple of years, but you do anyways because it makes life a whole lot simpler. But think about it Justin. You want to get laid, but you don't want to fuck around with all the preliminary crap. Or all the morning after weirdness. What could be better than, okay, a _hooker?_ There's a reason prostitution is the world's oldest profession."

"Guys are pigs?" asks Justin.

"Yep. That'd be it. Fortunately, you're a guy, so it's all good. Plus, this guy isn't just _any_ prostitute. He's a friend of mine, which means he'll cut you a pretty good deal. And he's fantastic in bed, too. You'll be so exhausted you'll sleep for a week. Best cure for insomnia on the market, dude. Just think about. Right now, though, I've got customers to take care of."

"Huh" Justin watches Joey make his way around the bar, collecting orders and empties. This is starting to sound like not such a stupid idea, he has to admit. If there are flaws, they aren't immediately obvious, although that might have more to do with the fact that his dick is continuing to assert its rights than anything else. It's almost tempting, really, in an oh-God-please-never-let-my-mother-find-out way. A little sex, a little cash, itch scratched and back to business as usual.

"Huh," he says again. Maybe Joey really isn't talking out of his ass. There's the small problem of coming up with the money. Well, big problem, really. He can't borrow any more from Chris, and it would just be wrong to hit up his mom for _this_.

"You're not really gonna do it, right?" Chris asks.

"Of course he is." JC folds his newspaper with an air of finality and slides it down the polished bar toward the almost-crying guy, who stares at it morosely for a few seconds and emits a heavy sigh as though the problems of the world have all flown out of the headlines to roost on his shoulders. " _Aren't_ you, Justin? It's either that or start cruising the washrooms, right?"

"I--"

"And, Chris, I don't know why _you're_ acting like little Miss Priss about this. At least _you'll_ be able to get some sleep again."

"Dude, you're right. What the fuck am I thinking?" Chris punches Justin's shoulder to get his attention, which is totally unnecessary since Justin is looking right at him. "Get Joey back here, and tell him it's a go. I'll even pay."

"Cool. Yeah, okay. Cool. But. Oh, _God_ , what about _diseases_?" Justin says, looking horrified. "Or, or _larceny_? What if the ho tries to, like, steal Chris's computer or something? What if he tries to steal _my_ computer?"

Depositing a tray full of dirty glasses and empty bottles on the counter, Joey gives Justin a smack on the side of the head. "Hey. Don't be offensive. I _told_ you, this is a friend of mine. He's perfectly healthy, he's not a thief, and if you call him a 'ho' one more time, you can go drink milkshakes at Denny's with the rest of the little boys. So, you're considering it?"

"Um. Maybe." Justin fiddles with his coaster. "So, uh, Joe? This guy? This _escort_ , would he do whatever I told him? I mean, since he's getting paid and all? By Chris."

"Sure, yeah, I guess. Within reason."

"Oh. Wow. That's kind of awesome, isn't it?"

"Awesome," Chris says. "So, like, if Justin wants the guy to whip him or dress him in a skirt or lick butter out of his navel or tie him up and spank him, he'd do all that?"

Everyone stares at Chris. Even almost-crying guy stops looking morose for a few seconds and scoots a couple of seats closer, faking an urgent interest in the array of bottles behind the bar.

"I guess he probably would, yeah." Joey nods.

Wow. Not that Justin is going to want any of that, or not the skirt thing, anyway, but still. Wow. He smiles. "Yeah, okay, what the hell. Set it up, Joe. I'm in."

*********************************

Justin gets to the bar half an hour early, not because he's eager, which he totally is, but because he knows he's going to need a good stiff drink before the ho -- _hooker_ \-- arrives. There's no alcohol at home since Chris has declared the apartment a hooch-free zone while he pit-bulls through the last chapter of his novel. Too easy to sidetrack into mid-afternoon booze-ups when the words won't come, he says, although Justin thinks it's really more a question of a shocking lack of self-discipline.

It's pretty crowded at the Fortress, standing room only at the bar and most of the tables taken by groups of people who are either just winding down for the night or have stopped in after a show or dinner, not wanting to arrive too early at whatever dance club they're planning to hit. It's noisy and smoky and unfamiliar. Justin and Chris usually only come here in the late afternoon or early evening.

"Mm, mm, mm. Look at _you_. _Very_ fine," a voice murmurs into his ear. He spins around to tell the guy to fuck off, but it's just JC perched on his usual stool, drinking something purple from a martini glass and talking to the bartender. Who isn't, Justin notices, Joey. Oh, shit. Maybe Joey forgot. "What're you drinking tonight, cat? Want one of these?"

"Oh, hey, C. Um. Maybe a scotch? On the rocks?" He'd really prefer a beer, but sometimes it makes him burp, especially if he drinks it too fast, which he suspects will be the case tonight. Also, beer isn't particularly classy, and Joey said this guy was kind of upscale, so, yeah. Justin doesn't want to look white-trashy or unsophisticated, even if he is paying the guy and it really shouldn't matter.

"Any luck with the job hunt?" Justin asks when JC hands him his drink. The scotch smells kind of. Well, kind of like ass, actually. But it looks elegant, he thinks, and he's fairly sure it makes him look older. He's about to take his first sip when someone slams him in the back with enough force to send half the contents of his glass sloshing over the rim.

"Fuck! You bastard!" He glares at Chris. "What the fuck, dude! Why are you here? I thought you were having dinner with your editor?"

"I was! But now I'm not! I cut out early. No way I wanted to miss you getting cozy with your first hooker. Oh, and, hey. Look at you! All dolled up like a little corporate pretty boy out on the town! Hahahaha! I can't believe you dressed up for a hooker!" Chris pinches Justin's cheeks so hard he almost tosses the rest of his drink into JC's lap. "My little boy, all growed up, but still such a baby."

"Cut it out! That _hurt_! Don't mess me up, I don't have time to go home and change." Also, he'd really prefer not to have to go through the agony of having to decide what to wear for a second time. Not after spending a solid two hours this afternoon, dragging every single item of clothing he owns out of his closet and trying them on in various combinations. His first plan had been to just wear blue jeans and a t-shirt, but his jeans were starting to look a little threadbare, and he didn't want to look like some kind of hillbilly. Then he'd settled on his black jeans and a mesh top, until he remembered that the last time he wore that top Chris had said he looked like a slutty rent boy. He doesn't want to look more like a hooker than the _hooker_ , and what if the hooker thought he was mocking him or something? That would just be embarrassing.

In the end, he'd settled on the only suit he owned, a charcoal grey Calvin Klein, a Christmas present from his grandmother which he'd thought was kind of annoying at the time since he'd been hoping for cash, or at least a transit pass. It fits beautifully, though, and it looks good on him. He can tell by the way everyone is eying him up on the sly.

"Oh, my God, a tie even!" Chris gives it a yank. "You're gonna fuck the guy, not propose, doofus."

"Shut up," says Justin. "I just wanted to look. You know. Like I'm somebody. I mean, he's been with all kinds of guys, like, hundreds, or even _thousands_ , probably, and I just want to be. I dunno. Memorable."

"You're definitely memorable," JC tells him. "But just. Hang on." He reaches over and loosens Justin's tie (well, it's Chris's tie, really, since Justin doesn't actually own a tie, but he hopes Chris won't recognize it and cause even more of a scene) and undoes the top button of his shirt. "There. Much better. Gives you that rumpled, ready to go a second round look. Very sexay. Trust me."

"Um. Yeah, okay. So, where's Joey? Is he even here? Do you s'pose he forgot?"

"Yeah, because you calling him three times a day for the past four days to ask if your big hot rent-a-date was allergic to cologne might not have been enough of a reminder."

God, Chris can be annoying. "You shouldn't be eavesdropping on my phone calls, dude. It's so not cool."

"Yeah, whatever. Joey's right behind you, moron. He's been standing there for the past five minutes, staring at your fine ass."

"Looking good, J," Joey says, moving into Justin's line of vision. "Don't drink too much, though, or you won't be able to get it up. Now _that'd_ be a waste of Chris's hard earned money."

"Joey! Hey! I thought maybe you got the day wrong. Is, uh, is he here yet? Did you notice?" Justin peers around casually, like he's just scoping out where the men's room is, but everyone seems to be in couples or groups. Of course, maybe the guy was here with a friend. Maybe he brought a friend along to, like, watch his back in case the john turned out to be a whack job. Or maybe he's brought his pimp with him. Except Joey's already paid him because Justin didn't think he could handle that part, so there wouldn't be much reason to bring his pimp. Unless his _pimp_ was watching his back. It was all so complicated.

"He'll be here, keep your shirt on. For now, anyway." Joey leers at him, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Hey, C. Any luck with the job hunting?"

Nodding glumly, JC says "Yeah, I guess. I got hired, anyway. They needed a sales clerk urgently at that bead store near City Hall, you know the one?" Everyone shakes their heads. "Well, it's a store. That sells beads. And they needed someone badly enough that I guess they didn't bother to check my references, so, yeah. I'll be working there for the next few days, anyway."

Justin stops listening and signals the bartender for another drink to settle his nerves. The first drink hasn't helped at all. His palms are still sweaty, and he keeps thinking he's forgotten something, but every time he pats his pocket, the condoms are still there. Probably the guy will have his own condoms in any case, but still. Best to be prepared, his mom always says.

Oh, holy Jesus, he wishes he hadn't thought about his mom. If she ever finds out about this, she's going to. Well. It won't be pretty.

The second drink goes down even faster than the first, and it's even starting to taste not bad. He's thinking that if the hooker doesn't show soon, he might try to talk Chris into a night of clubbing, when Joey pokes him in the ribs.

"Wake up, kiddo. He's here." Joey points across the bar, and Justin follows his finger with his eyes.

Oh. Oh, _yeah_. Man, Joey hadn't been talking out his ass when he said the ho was pretty good looking. This guy was. Mmmm. Blond. Glowing. Hot. Sizzling.

He looks back at Joey. "What do I _do_? Oh, my God! What do I _do_? What do I _say_?" He watches as the blond glances in his direction, then turns and seats himself at one of the corner tables. "Oh, shit. Why isn't he coming over here? Has he changed his _mind_? Oh, my _God_ , Joe, tell me what to _do_!"

"Re _lax_!" Joey squeezes his arm and gives him a little shake. "Look, he's just a guy. A guy you're going to have sex with. No big deal. Just take a deep breath and go say hi. I told him to grab a table when he got here because I _thought_ you might prefer" nodding toward Chris who's bouncing up and down on his tiptoes trying to get a better look at the hooker."some _privacy_. If you'd rather, I can just wave him over here and introduce him all around."

"Oh, no. No! No, that was. That was good thinking, Joe. I owe you one. Or seven. Okay, then. Crap, where did the Tic Tacs go?"

"Wait. Don't move." Joey heads off behind the bar and comes back with a flute glass filled with something murky and bluish. "Here. Take him a drink. It'll help break the ice."

"Okay, sure, I guess. But this looks kinda gross, doesn't it? Are you sure he'll like it?"

"Yes, I'm sure. It's what he _drinks_ , Justin. I told you, he's a friend of mine. It's called a Black Shadow -- Blue Curacao, Crème de Cassis and champagne. Not bad, really, if you like that sort of thing."

"Who's paying for that?" Chris asks. "It's not going on my tab, is it? I'm paying him to do the nasty with Justin, but if he wants to get drunk, that's gonna be someone else's dime."

Ignoring him, Justin takes a deep breath, wills his hands to stop shaking and starts winding his way slowly -- because he doesn't want to spill the drinks, he tells himself -- through the crowd. As he gets nearer, he notices that the guy is even hotter close up than he looks from across the room, which isn't something most people can manage, he finds, and which is why he himself tries to spend at least an hour a day working out, because it pays to take care of yourself. Well, obviously in the hooker's case. He also notices that the guy's dressed a little better than he expected. A lot better, really, since Justin realizes that up till now his mental picture of the guy's wardrobe has tended to feature items such as short-short denim cut offs, torn tees exposing a flash of nipple ring, or skin tight black leather ensembles set off with spiked collars.

This guy actually looks quite normal. Dark pants, black jeans, maybe, and a white shirt that hugs his torso rather nicely. He's poking around in what looks like a briefcase, and Justin wonders with a mixture of excitement and trepidation if perhaps it's full of sex toys and stuff, because, really, you'd probably need that kind of shit if you were a hooker, because how are you supposed to know what your clients are in the mood for? Of course, maybe the clients are expected to provide those things, in which case this is going to be a pretty vanilla evening. He's a bit disappointed, at any rate, to see that the briefcase is actually a laptop case and that what it's full of is, in fact, a laptop. Weird. Maybe the guy is a writer, like Chris. Maybe he's writing his memoir of life on the streets. Or, oh God, what if he's got a web cam in there? What if he films himself having sex with his clients and then blackmails them. He's pretty sure he read about something like that a while ago, or saw it on the news maybe.

It's too late to do anything about it now, though, because he's at the table and the hooker guy is looking up at him, and, oh, wow, his eyes are _green_ , green like a grass snake, green like the ocean, green like a field stretching ahead of you for miles, and his skin looks fresh and golden, and _heat_ seems to rise from him in waves.

The guy runs his eyes over Justin, an efficient stem to stern appraisal, and then does it again more slowly, mouth quirking into a small smile. He nods at the drinks in Justin's hand. "Is one of those for me?" he asks.

"Um. Uh." Justin hears someone yelling his name over the music and looks back over his shoulder. Joey is waving impatiently at him, motioning him to get a move on, and Chris is howling like a maniac, laughing and pointing and slapping JC's thigh. If his hands weren't full, he'd give them the finger; he settles for shaking his head furiously and turning his back on them again. "Yeah. Sure. I mean, yes. This one. The. Uh. Black Shadow. It's, um. Joey said you. Well. Here you go."

The hooker is laughing, but not in a mean way, or at least Justin hopes it's not a mean way. It's hard to focus on the details right now. Especially since, from a distance of less than a foot, he can see that the guy's shirt is almost-but-not-quite transparent, and his nipples are almost-but-not-quite visible through it.

"Can I," Justin says, "Um. Should I, like, sit down or something?"

The guy waves his hand toward the other chair. "Please. And," raising the glass to Justin, "thank you."

"You're, um," _so fucking hot I wanna do you right here in the bar_ "welcome. You're welcome." Justin says, and feeling a little guilty at taking credit for the drink, since he didn't actually pay for it, adds, "Joey. It was Joey. The drink. But I, um. Brought it over." Oh, fuck. Smooth as gravel. This was just _torture_.

"Yes. You did." The guy winks at him and waves toward the bar where Joey, Chris and JC are still watching him. Joey shrugs apologetically, so Justin guesses it must be clear even from a distance what an ass he's making out of himself.

"Oh, I'm Justin, by the way. Your. Whatsit. Your, uh." Was there a politically correct word for _john_? "I'm Justin." Whatever. Joey must have told the guy his name, so he'll know what Justin's here for. Shit. Had he told Justin the hooker's name? He can't remember. Peter? Trevor?

"I'm Lance."

Justin almost chokes on his mouthful of scotch. _Lance_. What a riot. Must be his street name or something. Perfect for a hooker, anyway. "Lance? Great name. Is that what you want me to call you, then?"

Lance blinks. He looks very pretty with his eyes closed, Justin notices. "Well, sure. Why not? Why don't you call me Lance, and I'll call you -- Justin, was it?"

There's an edge to his voice, and Justin thinks somehow he's managed to offend him, but he's not sure how. Maybe he's sensitive about using a hooker name, or something. Or maybe this is something you're not supposed to talk about, like an etiquette thing.

Lance is just sitting there staring at him with those wild green eyes, which is kind of unnerving. God damn Joey, anyway. The least he could have done is explained how this is supposed to work. Should Justin be trying to make small talk? What could he say? He already knows what the guy does for a living. He can't very well ask how work went today. That would be. Just. Well, interesting, actually. But maybe rude, too. He isn't sure.

"So, um. How was. How was your day?" Shit. Good thing he's paying the guy, or Lance would be racing for the door by now.

"You seem kind of nervous, Justin."

"Oh, no. No, no. No. No, not really, not nervous. Just. Um." _Fuck fuck fuck!!_ "How's the drink?"

God, he's gorgeous when he smiles. Even though he's obviously trying not to laugh. At Justin. "It's. Interesting." Lance takes another sip. "Nice. That Joey's quite the card."

That Joey's quite the fucking bastard. Here's Justin ready to _faint_ from nerves, for God's sake, and he decides to go with the joke drink. Justin's going to report him to the Health Department.

"You want something else? I can get you a, what would you like? This is good." He points to his own drink, which, oh, wow, how did that happen, is almost empty again. "It's scotch, yo." _Kill me now, please God, kill me now._

Lance seems surprised. Maybe he's used to being treated like a cheap whore or something. That's pretty sad, Justin thinks. _He_ won't treat him like that. He'll make him feel special, like a real guy, or whatever. Like a date.

"Oh, no. Thanks. This is fine. Like I said, it's interesting. It never hurts to ... ex _per_ iment, right?" Lance leans back in his chair, legs spread, one hand resting on his thigh, provocatively close to his crotch. Justin doesn't know which is hotter, the wanton pose or Lance's voice, deep and rich like warm syrup. "So, Justin. What do you do? For a _living_ , that is."

"Um. I." Justin's been planning on passing himself off as some kind of ad agency guy, because he figures Lance might make sure the sex is more spectacular if he thinks Justin might be a repeat customer, but he can't for the life of him think of an actual job title. He _could_ just say "I'm in advertising," but what if the guy, _Lance_ , wants details. What if he wants to know what campaigns Justin has worked on? Right now, the only products he can think of are Viagra and Preparation H.

Fuck it.

"I'm a student. Undergraduate. Faculty of Music." He peers at Lance from underneath his eyelashes, but Lance doesn't look condescending or disappointed or like he's thinking Joey has a lot of explaining to do. Encouraged, he adds, "I'm also a composer, but that's more of a, you know, unpaid thing. Well, not that being a student brings in the bucks either, but. Yeah. You know."

"Tell me about your music."

And that's all it takes. They talk about Justin's music, and other music, movies they've both seen, politics and growing up in Mississippi, which, apparently, is where Lance was born and raised. Justin wants to ask how a nice southern boy ended up selling his ass for a living, but that would be such a cliché, and it might sound kind of judgmental. Things are going smoothly now, so he decides to let it be. He can always ask later. After. It might fit more naturally into the conversation then.

It's getting late, though, and Justin has to study every single minute for the entire rest of the weekend to make up for taking the night off, so it's probably time to get on with things. He's not quite sure how this part works, though. Is _he_ supposed to say something or is that Lance's job. It _should_ be Lance's job, he's getting paid enough to take care of all the awkward bits. Lance doesn't seem to be in any hurry, that's for sure, he seems quite content to just sit here and yack it up till the cows come home. Maybe he thinks Justin is one of those guys who doesn't really want sex, who pays hookers just to sit and talk to him. Maybe he thinks Justin's got a small dick and is too embarrassed to actually get naked with a guy.

He really doesn't want Lance to think he has a small dick.

"Hey, so." He reaches over and touches Lance on the wrist, a light touch, but lingering, because once his fingers make contact, it's hard to convince them to stop. "You wanna. You know. Go?"

Lance tilts his head to once side and gives Justin a long, considering look that seems to last ten years. "Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah, I do."

"Great. Good. Um. I'm not sure how this works. Do we go to your place? Or, well, is there a hotel you like to use?"

Lance raises his eyebrows. "A _hotel_?"

"I just thought. Or, you know. We could go to my place. I have a roommate, though. But," he turns around to check, "he's not home right now. So. Yeah. We could go there, maybe?"

"Your place is fine. Call your roommate and tell him not to come home for a couple of hours."

"Oh, hey. I _do_ have my own room, so, it's not like he'd be, you know, _watching_ or anything. Or _participating_ , if that's what you're thinking. Not trying for a two-fer, here." God, he wishes hadn't said that. Or thought it. A threesome involving _Chris_. That would be like doing it with, with. His _mom_ or something. Oh, fuck. He may never be able to have sex again.

"Sometimes I like to start in the living room. Or the kitchen. Or the hallway." Lance is putting on his jacket, closing his briefcase. "Call your roommate."

Justin almost sprains his thumb trying to wrest his cell phone out of his pocket. He _could_ go talk to Chris directly, but years of experience have taught him just how bad a mistake that would be. Chris answers on the fifth ring as usual -- he tells Justin it's because he doesn't want to seem too eager, but Justin knows it's just because Chris likes to be a prick.

"Hey, Justin! Buddy! Ahahahaha!"

Great, Chris sounds trashed. He probably won't even remember this conversation five minutes from now.

"Chris--"

"You crazy little fucker. Big fucker. Whatever. Hope you didn't make too big of an ass of yourself with--"

"Listen, shut up, okay? I just wanted to tell you I'm taking him back to our place. I'm gonna need you to stay out for a while longer, okay?"

"Yeah, but--"

"What? Like I've never done that for you?" Well, actually, he hasn't but then, Chris hasn't asked. He'd totally do it if Chris asked. "Just don't come home for a while, dude. Like, a couple hours." "Also," he ignores Chris's sputtering and moves away from Lance, cupping his hand over his mouth so he can't be heard. "Chris, listen. I know Joey already paid him, but if he, like, really kicks ass in the sack, should I, you know, tip him?"

"I can't hear a word you're saying, bozo. Speak up. But first, tell me, what happened when he--"

Out of the corner of his eye, Justin sees Lance moving closer. "Can't talk now. Bye."

Lance gives Justin a little hip bump and a Mae West smile. "Okay, pretty boy," he says, "lead the way."

*************************

By the time they get to the apartment, Justin feels like he's in imminent danger of _exploding_ out of his pants. They'd barely spoken a word on the walk home, but Lance had punctuated the distance by repeating the hip bumps every few feet and shooting him these _looks_ , these looks of _smoking_ intensity, like he just couldn't wait to get all over Justin's body. Which Justin can totally relate to, because, yeah. His hands are just _itching_ to lay themselves on Lance's body, maybe especially on that amazing, delicious ass of his. In the bar, the ass hadn't even been a factor in the equation because Lance had been sitting on it and it's kind of hard to notice someone's butt when it's parked. But, holy Mary mother of God, after watching that ass bobbing in front of him on the way up the stairs, Justin can barely restrain himself from grabbing handfuls of it and squeezing.

All the way home, he's been thinking about what he's going to do to Lance, how this night is going to go. He'd toyed with various scenarios before he actually met Lance, scenarios in which Justin was firmly in control of the situation, ordering Lance to perform this sexual favour or that, in a nice way, of course. Sort of like a sultan with his favourite harem slave. Or maybe Bill Clinton with Monica Lewinsky. Scenarios, at any rate, that involved the hooker on his knees between Justin's legs, lucky if Justin let him come up for air (which he totally _would_ , of course, really) or on his hands and knees on the bed, begging Justin to fuck him harder, faster.

Now that he's facing the reality of Lance, it's a little different. He can't really see himself ordering Lance to get down on his hands and knees to undo Justin's fly using only his teeth. For one thing, right now he can't even seem to speak in complete sentences, and he's pretty sure that if he just says "down" or tries an emphatic hand signal, Lance is going to laugh at him. Again.

One thing's for sure, though; he wants Lance on that bed with his legs spread in the shortest possible amount of time. Or, if Lance is so keen to start in a different room, that's cool, too. He can get his mouth onto Justin's dick in pretty much any room of the house he wants to. Although, maybe the bathroom would be better than, say, the living room. Easier to clean, anyway, in case things get. Well. Messy.

As he lets them into the apartment, he struggles to remember how messy it was when he'd left earlier. He hadn't had time to clean up after Chris, what with all the trying on of clothes and such. Maybe if he keeps Lance really busy, he won't notice. He turns to Lance, intending to herd him towards the bathroom, which he _knows_ is clean.

Lance has taken his jacket off, and as he tosses it onto the chair in the hall, there's a chink of metal and a pair of handcuffs falls with a clatter on the tiled floor.

They both stare at them wordlessly for a minute. Justin can feel his eyes going wide, but he tries manfully to hide it, to look cool and blasé, like everyday he handcuffs hookers to his bed or whatever.

Shrugging, Lance bends to retrieve the cuffs and tucks them into his briefcase. The sight of that ass again is enough to dispel the awkwardness, for Justin at least.

When Lance stands up, stretches and starts fingering his belt buckle, it's as though the handcuffs had never existed. Justin can't take his eyes off Lance, probably couldn't speak right now if his life depended on it. He watches, mesmerized, as slowly, deliberately, Lance undoes his belt and slides it free of the buckle.

"Get your clothes off, Justin."

"Um, what?" Justin doesn't want to do anything that means looking away from Lance's groin and Lance's fingers as they flirt with the zipper of his pants.

"Clothes. Off. Now."

Justin's naked before he even registers that he's moving. It crosses his mind that this would be a very embarrassing time for Chris to come home. He starts edging his way to toward the bathroom, hoping Lance will follow.

Lance doesn't, though. He just stands their, hand down the front of his pants, watching Justin with an enigmatic smile on his face.

"C'mere," he says.

"Um. Uh." Pointing vaguely in the direction of the bathroom door, Justin says, "Um. I thought maybe we could" but his feet don't pay any more attention to him than Lance does, and he finds himself in front of Lance before he's finished the sentence. When Lance lays his hands on Justin's shoulders, Justin drops like a stone. Fuck. His knees are going to hurt like stink tomorrow. He starts to say something about how, okay, this is fine but they'll be moving into the bedroom afterwards, but Lance's dick is right there, two inches from his face and already hard, and Lance's hands are cupping the back of his head, easing closer, so he only gets as far as "okay, fine" before opening up and surrendering to the inevitable.

Lance takes it slow for the first couple of minutes, but that's just boring. It's not like Justin's some kind of newbie to cocksucking or anything. If Lance is trying to be gentle, that's thoughtful and all, but so _totally_ unnecessary, Justin thinks. He swallows Lance's dick in one smooth motion, and hums in satisfaction at the resulting "oh fucking jesus fuck me fuck" and the way Lance sways above him like he's about to keel over in shock.

Lance doesn't let him finish, pulling out still hard, although from his smothered gasps it's clear that he's been enjoying the party on his dick as much as Justin. This is confirmed when, once he's caught his breath, he pets Justin's head and says "you could make a nice living doing that." It's a cool thing to say, and Justin feels inordinately proud of himself, until he remembers that Lance is a hooker and can't really be trusted to tell the truth about sex stuff to his clients. On the other hand, it's kind of an odd thing for a hooker to say, really, because what if your client didn't like being compared to a ho and decided to dock your pay or something? Maybe, it occurs to Justin, maybe Lance is offering him a _job_. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that must be it. Maybe Lance is looking for, like, a hooker companion or something. Or someone to do parties with. Someone to watch his back.

"Um, no offence, dude," he tells Lance, "but I'm pretty happy at the university. I don't think I could do this" waving back and forth between his mouth and Lance's dick, still jutting jauntily into the air "full time or anything."

He gathers from Lance's snickering that he's not offended.

"Oh, hey, where are you going?"

The living room is even more chaotic than Justin remembers leaving it. There are papers strewn about in piles on the floor, the coffee table and every other available surface. Chris's notes for his novel -- the timelines, character backstories, research notes, and emails from his editor. Stacks of books teeter haphazardly all around the desk in the corner, and there are at least six dirty coffee cups visible to the naked eye.

God, it looks like he lives in a slum. No wonder Lance is trying to tempt him onto the street.

"It's, um. My roommate," Justin explains. "He writes books. Bodice rippers, actually, which is kind of weird, but, oh, well. These are his working papers and all that shit. It doesn't always look like this. Usually, we're. Whatever. He'll fucking castrate me if I mess any of this up. I think maybe we should move into the bedroom."

Lance pets Justin's dick, gives his balls a light squeeze. "Definitely don't want to lose these, now, do we? Bedroom it is."

He heads back to the hall, picks up his briefcase and follows Justin to the bedroom door. Hand on the doorknob, Justin remembers. The laptop. Webcam. Shit.

"Sorry, dude," he says, pointing to the briefcase. "That stays out here."

"Hmmm. Well, no. Actually, it doesn't." With an apologetic smile that isn't remotely convincing, Lance pushes past him into the bedroom.

"Okay, then. Just. Well. Put it under the bed, okay?"

"You're kind of a freak. You know that, right?" Lance asks him, but he's still smiling. In amusement, this time, but at least he's not setting up a live feed from Justin's bedroom, so, yeah. It's all good.

Justin's starting to feel quite. Naked. Not surprising, since he's the only one without any clothes on. That might have been sexy for the first ten minutes, but now it's just starting to feel weird. It's time to regain some control here.

"C'mere," he says to Lance, in what he feels is a pretty neat reversal of the scene in the hall.

Lance laughs at him, but he walks toward Justin all the same. Dragging him in even closer, Justin anchors him in place with one arm around his waist and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He wants to rip it right off, send the buttons flying into the middle of next week, but it looks like an expensive shirt and he doesn't know if Lance can easily afford another. His fingers won't work, and it takes him almost five minutes to get the stupid buttons undone, but he covers by reaching under the fabric every time he fumbles to give one of Lance's nipples a sharp little pinch. It's a good move. Even if it doesn't fool Lance, it sure seems to make him happy.

Lance's skin feels so good; warm and satin soft. God, it's like burrowing into hot sand, without the grittiness. Fucking him is going to be unbelievable. He runs his hands over Lance's body, a little rough, a proprietary kind of fondling, like Lance is that fantasy harem slave come to life. Like Justin owns him. Which he does, kind of, even if it just for the next couple of hours. Man, it feels amazing. He could definitely get used to this.

The way Lance moves under his hands, shifting into his touch, the deep, throaty noises of appreciation -- God, yeah. Maybe he should consider taking Lance up on his offer of the hooking job, just Justin can make enough extra cash to do this again sometime soon. Lance might even give him, like, a co-worker's discount, and he can sell his ass part-time.

Those noises, though. Justin wonders if it's all a show, if Lance is that good an actor. He also wonders if it's true that hookers don't like to kiss their customers, or if that's just another one of those corny clichés. Maybe it's time to test the theory. Starting at Lance's collarbone, nipping, licking, kissing, he works his way gradually from clavicle to ear. Justin's definitely in control now. Lance is like putty in his hands, running his hands over Justin's back and ass, moaning these slutty little moans that make Justin want to do him on the spot, just pin him against the wall and fuck the ever loving hell out of him. Soon. Kissing first.

He strokes Lance's cheek, cups his jaw and holds his head in place while he moves in for the kiss. Lance groans, and a second later Justin is flat on his back on the bed with Lance kneeling over him, his tongue so far down Justin's throat he could probably suck out the alveoli with one deep breath. Momentarily breathless, Justin just lies there like a lump while Lance takes possession of his mouth like a deep sea explorer, tonguing his way over every square millimeter. Giving himself a mental shake, he starts kissing back, and it's even better, they're slipping and sliding into each other's mouths. It's totally nasty, it's wet and dirty, and Lance makes the porniest sounds Justin has ever in his life heard or imagined. It is, bar none, the most fantastic kiss in his experience.

Catching Lance mid-moan, Justin rolls them over so he's on top, which lasts about ten seconds, and then they're rolling this way and that, and it's so cool, like the war of the mouths. Justin should totally be able to win this on strength alone, but Lance has some crazy-ass moves and just won't stay pinned. It's way fun, though; Justin can't remember the last time he had this much fun in bed.

Just when his dick is telling him that the fun and games portion of the evening is over, and that it's time to get Lance's outrageously _gorgeous_ ass in the air, Lance pulls back and looks around a little wildly. He's all sweaty and out of breath, his cheeks flushed a very becoming shade of pink, and, oh, the urge to screw him silly is still alive and kicking.

"Condoms?" Lube?" Lance asks. He's as inarticulate as Justin has been most of the evening, which is pretty damned gratifying.

Justin nods toward the bedside table, trying to move out from under Lance. "Uh huh. They're in there. Just let me."

Lance shakes his head. "Stay."

He really is a bossy ho. Justin isn't at all sure that his pimp would be impressed with that attitude. But he's also so fucking hot Justin thinks he might come just watching him and his mighty fine ass crawl across the bed to the night table. So. He stays. In some ways, this is _kind_ of like the harem scenario he'd envisioned, if you overlooked a few minor details. Like the fact that Lance was giving the orders. Again. But whatever.

Pushing Justin's legs apart and kneeling between them, Lance opens the tube of lube with one hand and strokes Justin's inner thigh with the other. Justin's dick is getting all twitchy with anticipation, because, far out, it looks like Lance is getting set to ride him, and that's like his favourite position. Well, they're all good, really, but this one's especially good because Lance will have to do all the major work and Justin will just have to kick back and watch him get even sweatier and prettier than he is already.

"You _have_ done this before, right?"

Justin's outraged. What kind of a question is _that_? "Of _course_ I have! Fuck. What kind of a question is _that_?"

"Great. I hate fucking a virgin. It's just plain tedious. Legs up, beautiful."

Before Justin can recover from the shock, his knees are up around his ears and Lance's finger is wiggling its way up his ass. If it didn't feel so damned good, he'd be really pissed off. Lance is obviously an expert at this, though, and what the hell. Maybe he's a lousy bottom, anyway. Well, obviously he's a lousy bottom, or he'd be on his hands and knees by now. The point is, Justin tells himself, it might be pretty presumptuous, not to mention _rude_ , of Lance to just take over like this when Justin's paying (well, okay, Chris is paying) darned good money to have some kind of say in what happens, but his mom has raised him to adopt a glass-half-full approach to life, and, truth be told, it's kind of impossible to see a downside to having a ho who knows what end is up fiddling around in your butt.

"You're thinking," Lance says, studying his face. "You need to stop that. Right now."

And Justin does what he's told because the next second all his attention is on the slow slide of Lances' dick into his ass, on the cute little way Lance bites his lip in concentration when he's really focused on something -- like nailing Justin's _ass_ \-- and on the fine film of sweat that's starting to gleam on Lance's chest. And then Lance is moving, fucking him deeply and decisively, reaching down to stroke Justin's dick, and the only thing on Justin's mind is the rhythm of their bodies as they move together and the fervent hope that Lance is going to be able to last a little longer than _he_ is.

******************************

Justin opens his eyes as he feels Lance move away from him. He glances at clock, but it's not time to get up, thank God. They've only been asleep for an hour.

"Hey, where are you going?" he whispers. "Don't go." He's thinking about the handcuffs which they haven't had a chance to use, but he's also thinking it would have been nice to have breakfast together.

The snick of the door closing tells him Lance has already left the room, and he sits bolt upright, suddenly wide awake.

"Fuck." Looks like that answers his question about whether Lance was acting.

Oh, wait. The tip! He almost forgot. Lance must think he's just a regular old cheap john, paying him his fee and not a dollar more. Well, Justin's not going to have him walk out of here thinking he isn't appreciated. Jumping out of bed, he goes to his dresser, removes fifty bucks from his emergency fund. He'd take more, but he figures $51.50 would be kind of insulting.

He trips over something on the way to the door and goes sprawling. Just as he lands face first in the carpet, cursing like he's never had his mouth washed out with soap, the door swings back open and Lance enters the room.

"Justin?"

The overhead light is blinding, and Justin throws in a few more "mother fuckers" for good measure.

"Justin? You okay?" Lance squats beside him and pets the side of his head gently. "What are you _doing_ down there?"

"I _fell_ , dammit. I was trying to catch you before you left and I tripped over," he cranes his head to spot the booby trap, "over your shoes. Apparently. I thought you were leaving," he adds accusingly.

"I was pissing. Sometimes you just gotta."

"You put your _pants_ on."

Lance smiles. "You said you have a roommate. I decided not to tempt him with my charms."

Leaning down, Lance touches his lips to Justin's forehead, an oddly delicate move that sends a flurry of little chills up Justin's spine. "I'm not in a hurry to leave, Justin. This has been. It's been great. I was thinking," he says, running his finger absently down the cleft of Justin's ass, "maybe we could, um." He clears his throat. "I'd like to see you again sometime."

"Oh, yeah, me too." Justin hauls himself up to a sitting position. "I have a bit of a cash flow problem right now, but I could probably borrow some money from Chris. Probably." Christ, he'll rob a frickin' bank if he has to.

"No worries," Lance says, laughing. "We can keep it simple."

"Cool." Justin wonders what "simple" means. Does Lance mean just blow jobs? Or maybe hand jobs? That'd be okay, too, although he really would like the chance to screw Lance as vigourously into the mattress as Lance has just screwed him.

"What's that?" Lance is pointing to the wad of bills in Justin's hand, a puzzled look on his face.

"Dude, I know that Joey already, you know. Took care of the details. But tonight was totally awesome. I mean, really. You were unbelievable. So, I want you to have this. You've totally earned it."

There's a long, long pause, during which Justin faces Lance, the money in his outstretched hand, and Lance just stands there staring at the money like it might suddenly start tap dancing. _Apparently_ , it would seem that tipping was not the done thing.

"What. What's _this_ for?" Lance asks, gesturing toward the money.

"It's just. It's a tip. A gratuity. Just. A little something extra. You know. Because tonight was really freaking hot, dude. God, if you don't want it, you don't have to take it. I just thought. "

He doesn't think Lance could look any more surprised, but he's wrong. His eyes are practically popping out of his head, and he's up on his feet, backing away from Justin as though he's just spotted the mark of the beast tattooed across his forehead.

"You thought I was a _hooker_? A _hooker_? You came on to me last night because you thought I was a _hooker_?"

"Well, _yeah_. But. Wait. You're _not_ a hooker? Oh, come on. Of course you're a hooker. That's why Joey paid you. Besides, look at what you're wearing. I can see your _nipples_ through that shirt, dude. If you're not trying to sell it, then why are you advertising? Also. Also you carry sex toys with you. Who does that?"

" _Sex toys_? What in the name of flaming fuck are you _talking_ about? Oh. Oh, no. These?" Lance fishes the handcuffs out of his case and shakes them in Justin's face.

"Well, yeah. Those. QED, buddy. I rest my case? Who else besides a hooker or a kinky bastard like JC carries handcuffs around in his pocket?" Even as he says it, he knows the answer. "Oh, shit."

"Cops, you idiot. I'm a _cop_. Fuck. I just. Fuck. Look. Do me a favour, go to hell, okay? Take your money, cram it up your ass where you obviously keep your brains, and go find yourself a real whore. Fifty bucks. You cheap bastard."

Snatching up his briefcase, he slams out of the room.

"It was a TIP!!" Justin yells.

Justin stares at the door.

Oh.

Well.

That was unexpected.

Also, Joey is one fucking dead bastard. Of all the nasty, sneaky, shitty tricks to pull. Setting him up like that with a cop. Justin's lucky he wasn't arrested and charged with lewd and lascivious behaviour. He has to admit, though, it was one hell of a prank. It might even be funny thirty years from now. When the taste of Lance's mouth is finally erased from his brain.

Crap. Dejected and grumpy, Justin climbs back into bed and yanks the comforter up over his head. After a while he hears the front door open and close again. Chris is home again and, from the sound of things, he's brought someone home. If he's lucky his date won't turn out to be some fucking cop with a bad attitude.

Life sucks.

Well, at least someone will be happy. He's not horny any more, so maybe Chris will finally be able to get a decent night's sleep.

******************

The voices in the other room are still going strong twenty minutes later, and worse, Chris seems to be having a fine old time. Justin can hear him out there, shrieking away like a cracked out banshee, which is just _so_ inconsiderate considering how pissed he's been at Justin every night for the past two weeks just for cleaning the god damned bathroom at two in the morning.

He wraps the pillow around his head, but it doesn't do any good at all. That fucking midget bastard. This must be payback. Fucker. He has to go and pick tonight of all nights to exact his petty revenge. If he wasn't feeling so crappy, Justin would go out there and kick his ass. He'd pick up all his papers and shuffle them together like playing cards, and Chris would have to spend the three months sorting them out again.

Another loud burst of laughter erupts from the living room. It sounds like Chris and his buddy have settled in for an all nighter. Fuck. Chris could shatter crystal with that laugh. There's no way Justin's going to get any sleep with that shit going on.

Sighing, he climbs out of bed again, yanks a clean pair of sweats out of the drawer, drags them on, and heads for the living room to make Chris wish he'd never been born.

When he pokes his head into the living room, Chris doesn't even have the grace to look abashed. He's sitting in the armchair, legs tucked underneath him, looking insufferably comfortable and content, and he's drinking a beer, which what the hell are rules for if you're going to break them all the time. No discipline at all. It's pathetic. At the sight of Justin, he sprays a mouthful of beer all over the carpet, he's whooping and laughing so hard he's even got beer coming out of his nose. It's quite possibly the most disgusting display Justin has ever seen.

"Fuck. Just, _fuck_ , Chris! What the hell! Some of us are trying to sleep here and some of us have a really shitty night and would appreciate a little fucking consideration if you don't fucking mind!"

"Yeah, I _heard_ about your shitty night," Chris gasps. Taking a deep breath, he points to the sofa, then he's off again, howling and wheezing and pounding his hand against the chair with unholy glee.

Justin turns to look, and, shit. _Shit_. There's Lance. Sitting on the couch all nice and sedate, sipping his beer like he hasn't been masquerading all night as a hooker to entice Justin into his bed. Well, into Justin's bed. And, okay, maybe he hadn't actually intended to masquerade as a hooker, but still. He has _no_ right in the world to sit there looking so. So. So _fucking_ hot.

Lance smiles at him and Justin can see that he's trying not to join Chris in the rolling around on the floor laughing thing, which, in fact, is exactly what Chris is doing now. He's slid off his chair, and he's snorting into the carpet like a warthog. Like a giggling warthog.

"Knock it off, Chris," he says, poking him none too gently with his foot. "You're being a jerk. And I don't see what's so damned funny. This wasn't funny. None of it. It was a stupid, shitty joke, and Joey was a stupid shit to do it. And if you knew about it, you're a stupid shit, too."

"Joey?" Chris puts his hysteria on pause for a moment, looking up at Justin in bemusement. "How is this Joey's fault?" Comprehension dawns in his eyes, just as, Justin is sure, confusion is dawning in _his_. "You can't blame Joey for this one, dude. This one is all yours."

"But. No, but Joey said--"

"Oh, man, you thought Joey set you up? That's fucking priceless. God, I wish he had! What a fucking awesome burn that would have been! But, no. As I was just explaining to _Detective_ Bass here -- along with the fact that he was, in fact, your first and only hooker -- you went to the wrong _table_! AHAHAHAHA! God, you are such a moron! You went to the wrong. fucking. table! There we were waving and hollering at you, and JC even threw his _belt_ at you, but you wouldn't pay any attention because you're a pig-headed asshat of a boy. And, oh, man, I love it so much, I'm going to be torturing you with this till the day you die! You're just lucky I caught him for you before he got back to the station and issued a warrant for your arrest!"

And he's off again with the snickering and snorting, wiggling around on the carpet helplessly, and there's nothing Justin would enjoy more right now than giving him a good swift kick to the nuts.

Well. There's one thing he might enjoy more.

He looks back at Lance, who still looks like he wants to laugh, but maybe like there are things he'd rather do.

"Do you want," Justin waves in the general direction of his bedroom. "Are you, um. Tired?"

"Mmmmm," Lance says, getting to his feet and moving toward Justin, not stopping until he's practically standing on Justin's feet. "Yeah, sure. Why don't we just go...nap for a while."

\-- The End --


End file.
